With regard to this mysterious group, Sam very carefully coaxed Baz into telling him all about them.
In truth, and contrary to his cryptic remarks at the 617 Club, Baz was quite clearly desperate to speak about them - or, more accurately, brag about them and their activities.
To him, they were obviously the pinnacle of what it meant to be a skinhead and it was his sole ambition to become one of their number.
The Bomber Squadron were a group of eight, very hard, extremely notorious skinheads led by Dean McCollough and his second in command, William Merton.
Most of them, including McCollough and Merton, had some sort of Army background. Baz even boasted that his brother and Psycho Billy occasionally worked as mercenaries for hire, with a speciality for ‘wet work.’
They were also heavily involved with a number of White Power groups.
The Bomber Squadron itself was concerned mostly with racist violence against the ethnic minorities which included orchestrated, highly organised attacks on West Indians, Asians and Jews which were specifically intended to cause maximum devastation.
For amusement, they would also cruise the streets in a black, unmarked, Transit van searching for vulnerable targets for their particularly vile brand of hatred; a practise they called ‘Paki-bashing’ or ‘Nigger-bating.’
In pursuing this ‘sport’, they were known to use meat cleavers, carving knives and crowbars.
What is more, the Bomber Squadron often selected random people from the 617 Club crowd and bestowed on them the ‘honour’ of accompanying them on one of these nocturnal excursions, giving the successful candidate the opportunity to beat someone of an ethnic persuasion to within an inch of their life - just for the pure, unadulterated fun of it.
Indeed, Baz had eluded to this practice on the night Sam visited the club, saying that if he ‘played his cards right’, he might get picked, too.
Sam found the whole concept utterly abhorrent yet he played along and feigned enthusiasm.
But deep down, in the pit of his belly, his anger was burning and he could not wait to make William Merton pay for the revolting things he had done.
***
Often, whenever Sam was not with Flea or hanging out with Baz in local skinhead haunts, he would dress in ordinary clothes and put on a baseball cap, usually pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, too, to disguise his shaven head.
He would then find some discreet spot and watch either Vasily or Miriam as they went about their daily business.
They never knew he was there, of course, but just being close to them made him feel normal for a while.
He had watched Vas struggling back and forth to college, weighted down with books and course work, all of which he had undoubtedly breezed through.
He had been there, too, when Miri graduated from college and watched her as she moved out of her university digs and into her new bedsit. He had even been present in the hospital canteen on several occasions whilst she grabbed a quick bite during her new placement as a junior doctor.
He was so proud of her yet she was oblivious to his presence.
In over-hearing snippets of conversation, he was also aware of her dating woes and his heart went out to her.
But he could not say anything for fear of giving himself away and for the time being it was important that he remain anonymous.
Nevertheless, seeing both her and Vas always made him feel better.
It also helped to remind him of Claudette and exactly why he had set himself upon this course for vengeance.
***
Sam had to wait until the following week before getting an opportunity to see Merton again when he, Flea and Baz visited the 617 Club for a second time.
Since assuming the role of a skinhead and mingling with their hordes, Sam had taken to carrying a hunting knife. He had purchased it in London from a specialist store in Camden Town prior to adopting his shaven-headed persona.
Described by the seller as a ‘Damascus Bowie’, it featured a curved antler bone handle, a pommel capped with black buffalo horn and a 7.5” polished steel blade. It also came with a tanned leather sheath.
Sam kept it with him at all times, tucked into his jeans at the small of his back, concealed by either a Crombie coat or Harrington jacket, hoping, that one day soon, he might have the opportunity to use it on The Hare.
However, he had to choose his moment carefully and pick a time when Merton was alone. It was all just a matter of waiting.
They had arrived at the club just before 10pm, the place once again packed to the rafters and heaving with sweaty, testosterone fuelled bodies. Nonetheless, Sam forced himself through the throng to the bar to buy a round of drinks.
On the way back to the same sofa, where Flea and Baz were waiting for him, Sam glanced over again to the door on the far side of the dance floor, knowing that behind it was one of the six men who had killed Claudette.
Merton was tantalisingly close, yet Sam had still not worked out a way of catching him on his own and could only hope that an opportunity might soon present itself.
However, he carried the drinks back to the sofa, joining Flea and Baz, knowing that he had to be patient.
Yet he had no sooner sat down when the door to the back room opened and William Merton swaggered through it, dressed not in usual skinhead attire but in black, zip-up nylon bomber jacket, black combat fatigues and black military-style boots.
Baz reached past Flea and tapped Sam on the shoulder excitedly. “This is it,” he said, “Billy’s gonna pick someone, I betcha.”
Sam watched as Psycho Billy stood with his back to him just a few feet away, almost within touching distance. Standing on the periphery of the undulating mass on the dance floor, he surveyed the crowd, like a general inspecting his troops and they, in turn, seemed to be falling over themselves in a bid to catch his eye, hoping to be chosen to go with the Bomber Squadron on another of their infamous moonlight hunts.
Merton clearly enjoyed the attention; his stance straight-backed with legs apart; his manner supremely confident as he cast his gaze about the room, chin jutting out arrogantly.
He made a grand show of deliberating, relishing the power his status gave him, but no one seemed to appeal - indeed, Sam had an inkling that none of them would, suspecting that Merton had already made his choice.
But it was no one standing in front of him.
Sam’s instincts served him well; the little voice at the back of his brain telling him to be very wary, as Merton then turned to look at the three of them sitting on the sofa.
Sam felt Flea stiffen with fear beside him as Psycho Billy studied them, an imperious smirk on his crooked lips. Sam tried to disguise the burning hatred in his eyes as he stared unwaveringly back, his face set with determination and the reassuring feel of the Damascus Bowie at the small of his back.
Merton was not an attractive man. His eyes were grey and cold and his complexion still bore traces of the acne he had suffered from in his teens, but it was his harelip that was most effecting. His top lip was severely misshapen, curled up in a permanent snarl, with a bright pink scar leading from the uppermost point to the bottom of his left nostril; the resulting handiwork of a very poor surgeon who had left him seriously disfigured.
Yet, in spite of his rather unsettling, somewhat ghoulish appearance, Merton bristled with self-assurance.
He scrutinised each of them in turn, starting with Baz on the far end of the sofa.
“Alright, Bill?” Baz said, eager to be picked, “Going out tonight are ya?”
Merton nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned his attention to Flea but she could not meet his gaze and just squeezed Sam’s hand tightly.
“This your new one then, Flea?” Sneered Psycho Billy, referring to Sam. “Didn’t take ya long did it?”
Flea did not respond and kept her eyes downcast. Sam could feel
her trembling.
“Well he’s a pretty one ain’t he? I’ll give him that - a step up from yours truly I don’t mind admitting,” Merton continued, but still Flea did not respond as her ex’s eyes bore into her for several long, awkward moments; his expression intense, the barely contained aggression bubbling menacingly just beneath the surface.
Then, as if a switch had been flicked, his face was suddenly calm and he turned his attention to Sam.
“Who are you then, pretty boy?” He demanded.
Sam’s eyes had been fixed on Merton since he entered the room and he kept them on him still as he answered; his voice firm and assured. “They call me, Robbo.”
Psycho Billy studied him, the volatile unpredictability of his violent reputation validated by the manic look in his eyes.
He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his gaze with curiosity, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Sam wanted to grab him by the throat and say, “Yes, you know me from the day you murdered my girlfriend and left me for dead - and now I’m here to make you pay for it.”
But instead, he just shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. I’ve been around for a while.”
“Have you now?” Came the dubious response.
Sam nodded, ready to defend himself should the need arise.
“Well it’s about time you got to know the lads then - what do you say?” Asked Merton.
“Sure,” replied Sam, his attitude indifferent. “Why not?”
“Good,” smiled The Hare, “Then how do fancy going on a little hunting trip with us tonight?”
“Hey, no - Billy wait,” protested Baz. “Pick me - it’s gotta be my—”
“Quiet!” Ordered Merton. “Your turn will come when I’m good and ready. “Tonight it’s Pretty Boy’s turn - he’s gonna show us what he’s made of, aren’t you Robbo?”
Sam stared deeply into Merton’s evil eyes and said with absolute conviction, “You can count on it.”
Merton grinned triumphantly, missing the intent in Sam’s tone. “Good. Then that’s settled. Come with me.”
***
Sam slipped off his Harrington jacket to allow quick access to his knife, should he need it, then followed Merton into the back room which represented the headquarters of the Bomber Squadron. But where he expected to see several more men, he found no one.
However, another door, at the far side of the room, led outside and Sam could see a black Transit van reversed up to it. Sitting on the floor in the back of it were the rest of Merton’s strike force, all wearing similar attire to him.
Merton snatched a knitted balaclava off the table in the centre of the room and threw it at Sam. “There you go, Pretty Boy, put that on and get in the van,” he instructed.
Sam pulled the black mask over his head and did as he was told, joining six of the eight man crew in the rear of the van whilst Merton climbed into the passenger seat next to the driver.
“Boys, this is Robbo,” he announced. “We’re gonna give him a little run tonight.”
Sam quickly found a space at the back of the van and nodded to the group of murderous looking skinheads as they, too, pulled on their own balaclavas.
The driver was already wearing a ski mask, preventing Sam from getting a good look at him, but as soon as Merton addressed him, saying, “Come on then, Deano - let’s go find us some Pakis,” Sam knew the man to be Deano McCollough, Baz’s brother and leader of the Bomber Squadron.
The atmosphere was tense and excited as they drove from the old cricket ground that was the home of the 617 Club and into the suburbs of Cambridge.
The men Sam was with were all armed; pick axe handles, lengths of pipe - one carried a leather cosh and another even had a meat cleaver.
“Here, hand this to Robbo, will ya lads,” said Merton passing back a weathered looking baseball bat as McCollough slowed the Transit down to scan for likely victims. “Can’t go hunting without a suitable weapon.”
A moment later the bat arrived in Sam’s hands. “I want blood on that by the end of the night, Pretty Boy!” Merton yelled back to him. “Lots of lovely red Paki blood soaked all over it.”
The other men all laughed yet Sam’s anger just boiled. The only blood he was interested in seeing was Merton’s own.
They cruised the streets for over an hour, repeatedly turning right and left, painstakingly scouring every prospective neighbourhood in search of their prey, the Transit never moving above twenty miles an hour and McCollough ever ready for the chase.
The tension in the van was almost palpable, every man, except one, hungry for the thrill of the hunt and thirsting for the opportunity to exert their vile brand of hatred on some poor unsuspecting soul.
Round and round they drove, patiently awaiting their moment to strike. Then, all of a sudden, Merton shouted “There! Look Deano, three of the fuckers!”
Instantaneously the van accelerated as McCollough expertly worked through the gears, speeding from twenty to fifty in just a few seconds.
The Transit, at speed, swerved this way and that as the men in the back tightened their grip on the various weapons they were clutching.
Sam, meanwhile, felt sick to the stomach, silently willing whoever they were pursuing to run as fast as possible in order to escape these racist animals. Indeed, he knew that if their victims were caught then Merton would make certain Sam played his role in what would undoubtedly follow - and he did not want any part of it as the whole idea was sickening.
Yet he could not risk blowing his cover. Could not let Merton see him for who he truly was for the sure knowledge that it would ruin whatever chance he had to avenge Claudette.
However, he had no time to ponder this further as McCollough shouted, “Shit, the little bastards are splitting up - get after the skinny one, Billy - we’ll round up the others!”
As he spoke, the van suddenly skidded to a violent halt.
“Robbo, you’re with me!” Yelled Merton as he leapt out of the vehicle, clutching a tyre iron.
Before Sam had a chance to react, the skinhead sitting opposite him opened the rear doors and shoved him out onto the road.
“We’ll catch up to you later!” Cried McCollough as the Transit roared off once more, the rear doors closing again as it sped away.
“Come on - after him!” Shouted Merton who was already hurtling down the street, chasing after a terrified Pakistani youth some thirty feet away who was running for his life.
Sam began to run, too, trying to catch up with Merton; his mind racing, wondering what the hell he could do to help the poor lad they were chasing without giving himself away.
They pounded down the street in high speed pursuit, their booted feet resonating loudly on the pavement as they sprinted after the innocent young man, his distance from them shortening with every long stride they took.
They ran down the High Street, passed several shuttered shops, passed a burger joint and an off-license, down into a side street, then another.
Sam heard the sound of a police siren in the distance and instinctively knew it had something to do with the men in the Transit van but Merton was unheeding; the thrill of the hunt powering him onwards, the scent of his prey in his nostrils.
Furthermore, his speed was staggering and Sam was struggling to keep up.
Indeed, as the Pakistani youth turned into a dark alleyway, Merton was hot on his heels, the tyre iron raised above his head in preparation to strike.
Sam was a few yards behind, knowing he was about to witness something truly horrific. He had to do something. He had to stop it.
Suddenly he saw the wall at the end of the alley and realised it was a dead end. The boy had no where to go, had no escape. He was trapped like a rat in a cage and Merton was almost upon him.
With all thoughts of his own safety evaporating, Sam flung the baseball bat at Merton’s feet. He did it wi
thout thinking, out of utter desperation, with no mind to the consequences, knowing only that he had to protect the boy.
The throw was aimed perfectly; the whirling bat tangling with Merton’s legs, tripping him over and sending him crashing to the ground.
The Asian boy, with nowhere left to go, came up against the brick wall and turned to face his would-be attacker, his eyes wide with terror.
He saw Merton on the ground and another masked man closing fast.
Sam ripped off the balaclava. “Go!” He yelled. “Get over that wall, quickly. I’ve got this!”
The boy did not need telling twice. He did not understand what was happening but was certainly not going to stick around to find out.
Quick as a flash, he leapt up and grabbed the top of the eight foot wall, then pulled himself up and over it in double-quick time.
Sam heard footsteps running away on the other side as the lad made his escape.
He then turned to see Psycho Billy climbing slowly to his feet, his eyes glaring at him and blazing with violent intent.
Chapter Thirteen
After dropping off Merton and Sam, Deano McCollough sped after the other two Pakistani youths.
One of the lads darted down a narrow street and McCollough stopped the van once more to send four more of his crew after him before speeding off again.
The final boy kept on running straight; so scared that he did not even notice that he was approaching the Main Road.
As he sprinted mindlessly across it, there was a deafening screech of tyres. The boy turned just in time to see a minicab heading directly for him.
With no hope of escape, the lad had enough presence of mind to leap onto the bonnet in a desperate bid to lessen the impact.
Nevertheless, he still rebounded off the bonnet and crashed heavily into the windscreen, shattering it as he was tossed over the roof and down onto the road at the rear of the minicab, which had now skidded to a complete halt.
McCollough pulled up sharply at the T-junction of the Main Road and saw the boy climb slowly to his feet; his forehead grazed and his nose bleeding, but otherwise seemingly unharmed.
Perfect Day Page 13